Famous fairy tales revisited: the Sleeping Beauty
by hobgoblin123
Summary: And now just guess who could be the sleeping beauty... Set at the end of CoS, at the Keep. What if a "fairy" intervened? Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Famous fairy tales revisited: the Sleeping Beauty**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or 'the Sleeping Beauty', and no profit whatsoever is intended.

**Chapter One: The Keep**

Once upon a time, on a far away planet, there lived two men who had accomplished to save mankind from certain doom. Although initial hatred and disgust between the unlikely allies had been transformed to mutual trust and a kind of grudging friendship both Damien Vryce, a warrior knight and former priest, and Gerald Tarrant, the Hunter, had failed to acknowledge how much they really meant to each other.

Coming home from their mission to the Hunter's keep in the Forbidden Forest they weren't greeted with blessings and gratefulness, but with a crusade, led by Andrys Tarrant, Gerald's last living descendant, poised to punish his ancestor for his crimes committed against his own family and humankind while being an undead disciple of the Nameless One.

Maybe the Hunter could have saved himself by sacrificing his friend, but Vryce's presence had already started a process of change that had come to completion by the unexpected regaining of his humanity. His battered soul slowly healing Gerald Tarrant simply couldn't bring himself to barter his companion's life for his own continuing existence, a selfish deed he had aready committed once, a millennium ago, murdering his wife and children to gain immortality. So he bewitched the warrior knight and made him leave, knowing very well that this altruistic course of action might cost his own life.

When Vryce had left Andrys Tarrant closed in for the kill, but to his utter amazement a young woman materialized out of the blue, beautiful like a clear dawn, with long, black tresses and sparkling blue eyes.

Andrys had no intention of trafficking with one of the faeborn, but the young man was enthralled by the lady's beauty and grace, and so he listened to her instead of calling for help or using his weapon, still aimed threateningly at the Hunter's heart.

"Who are you?" Andrys rasped, his voice hoarse with terror and strain. "And what do you want?"

"My name is Saris", the fair lady replied with a breathtaking smile that made the sun pale in comparison. "Don't fear me, Andrys. I'm not here to harm you, but to save you from a grave mistake. Kill Gerald Tarrant, and you will open your heart to the forces of darkness forever."

Andrys just stared at her, completely taken aback. He'd never been more exhausted in his whole life, physically and mentally, and his knees were trembling with sheer exertion. It didn't help that he felt the piercing eyes of that accursed monster resting on him, watching him ardently with jarring, inhuman patience, presumably waiting for an opportunity to attack.

The young man steeled himself and straightened his shoulders. He wouldn't be fooled so easily. Maybe the ravishing female had been in league with the Hunter from the beginning and was using sorcery on him now to save her master. At this point he wouldn't put anything beyond the demonic in general and especially not beyond his ancestor, the Neocount. Andrys still vividly remembered the remains of his siblings, hacked to pieces by the same vile creature that was standing not fifteen feet away, much too close for his own liking. Bile rose in his throat, and he had to fight his urge to pull the trigger, to end this once and for all.

"And you expect me to believe you that you simply came here for my benefit?" For a moment Andrys wondered from which hidden source of strength he was dredging up the acerbic sarcasm that was oozing from his words. "Just to save my soul from stepping on the road to hell? The soul of a man you've never met before? What kind of gullible fool do you think I am?"

"At least gullible enough to fall for Calesta's and your patriarch's manipulations. But that's not the point", she continued, her hypnotic eyes never leaving his own. "One of my followers begged for your ancestor's life, and I decided to grant her wish. Call me a fairy, if you want to, Andrys. The appellation really doesn't matter. The choice is yours to make, but choose wisely."

Their parley was stopped by a soft, barely audible moan, and to Andrys' surprise his ancestor was swaying on his feet and groping for one of the shelves for support, barely able to hold himself upright on his own account. At first Andrys suspected a trick to distract him, but then he realized with a start that the man evidently was on his last strings of endurance.

Heartened by the Hunter's unexpected display of weakness Andrys dared a closer look, and completely bemused he perceived the dirty, tired face, the rags of what might have once been fine clothes, their torn remains barely hiding a frail, emaciated body, the shaking of his ancestor's hands. This wasn't the undead abomination he remembered from Merentha Castle, powerful and in total control, but a mortal man, weary, exhausted and close to collapsing on the spot.

An utterly unexpected wave of pity flooded through Andrys, and for a moment the young man felt like relenting, but then the true meaning of Saris' words struck him like lightning. 'One of my followers begged for your ancestor's life…' Narilka. It had to be Narilka who had implored Saris to save Gerald Tarrant instead of supporting his quest to rid the world of that monster's taint forever.

Burnig hatred welled up inside the young man anew, and he gripped his springbolt tighter. Wasn't it enough that the beast had already robbed him once of each and every human being he had ever cared for? Narilka wouldn't fall into the Hunter's clutches; he'd make sure of that, even if that was the last thing he ever did in his life. The time for futile negotiations had come to an end, and gritting his teeth Andrys steeled his heart and pulled the trigger. Without so much as a sigh Tarrant went down in a heap and lay motionless, his face veiled by his matted hair.

Slowly the red mist of wrath and plain, human jealousy which had clouded Andrys' discernment lifted, and frozen with horror the former Hunter's descendant realized that he had just shot an unarmed man who hadn't lifted so much as a finger to threaten him. "Dear God, is he dead?"

Saris shook her head in response. "Not dead, just unconscious, Andrys. You missed Gerald by a whisker. Maybe your god has truly shown mercy and has protected his fallen prophet. You never bothered to care what has come to past while you and your army were busy with your foolish crusade, but the priest and Gerald Tarrant just saved humankind from falling into eternal slavery. Killing him would be a poor reward, don't you think so? Lay Gerald on the table over there, if you don't mind."

'If you don't mind?' Of course he did mind! The mere sight of the bloody bastard still gave him the creeps, not mentioning touching him. In a huff the young man obeyed and lifted the limp body of his ancestor on the big alteroak table, sweeping the books carelessly to the ground. To his amazement the icy chill Andrys was remembering all to well had apparently been replaced by an almost feverish heat, the pulse beating rapidly below the translucent skin that was stretched tautly over protruding bones.

Groaning Andrys laid the Neocount down on the table and hid his face in his hands. Dear Heaven, this bastard really was a pain in the arse. No, he wouldn't try to kill the Hunter again, no matter what had passed between him and Narilka. By now he was quite sure he really didn't want to know. But letting him run free without any atonement for the atrocities he had committed against his own descendants was simply unthinkable.

With a heartfelt sigh of exasperation the young man faced the beautiful Iezu. "So what do you propose, Saris?"

"I will put him to sleep."

Andrys stared at her in complete bafflement, not quite trusting his ears. "Put him to sleep?" he asked incredulously. "Doesn't seem a proper punishment to me. The son of a bitch's out cold, anyway."

"You don't understand, Andrys", Saris replied with a sweet smile. "For my followers I'm the Goddess of Beauty, and beauty I want to preserve. Gerald Tarrant will lay here in an enchanted sleep until he is redeemed by his true love. Even my kind cannot foretell the future, but I believe he will still rest here when you and your brazen crusaders have crumbled into dust long ago. The church will have its victory and you Narilka and the Neocounty. Would that solution suit you?"

Without waiting for his reply the Iezu started her Working, and Andrys watched in complete disbelief as the Neocount's bruises healed, the lines of fatigue on his face smoothed and his tattered clothes mended. Gerald Tarrant's last living descendant swallowed, and it took him a while to gather his wits.

"What about the crusaders? What do you suppose me to tell them?" he managed to croak at long last. "May I humbly inform you that they are going to blow up the keep? Not a safe resting place, if you ask me."

Saris smiled again, knowingly and with no small amount of mischief in her sparkling eyes. "Don't you worry, Andrys. Enjoy your life as a famous man, the slayer of evil incarnate, and live happily ever after with your charming goldsmith. I really hope you will invite me to your wedding."

So Andrys Tarrant was sent out with a grueling illusion of the Hunter's severed head, and the priest's heart broke when he had to witness his friend's head thrown onto a bonfire. The keep was blown to pieces, the Forbidden Forest, so artfully created by its master, burned to ashes, and the crusaders returned to Jaggonath to revel in their glorious victory. But no harm touched the underground study that contained a veritable treasure of books and notes and a still figure sleeping peacefully on a wooden table.

As it is supposed to be nature survived the havoc wreaked by mankind, and when the raging firestorm that consumed the forest had finally died down various plant seeds found their way to the burned earth. The first little saplings arose from the barren ground, green, healthy and lush, until not even a faint memory of the Hunter's sinister creations remained. No plants though were more beautiful than the wild roses that had somehow found a living close to the ruins of the keep, and over the years they grew and grew until the crumbling walls that had once, in the prime of the keep's master, soared to reach the sky had completely disappeared under their vines.

The warrior knight died of old age in the remote cloister where he had spent the last thirty years, and the last word he whispered on his deathbed was the name of his lost friend. The world kept turning, and the soul that had once been Damien Vryce was reborn, died anew and was reborn again in a never-ending circle, forever yearning for something it couldn't name. And still the roses were growing, and the Hunter and his black fortress passed from living memory into the realms of legend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: **

Disclaimer: I own neither the Coldfire Trilogy nor the fairy tale "The Sleeping Beauty"

Setting: five hundred years later; technology: approximately the late 1990s on Earth, but the landing on the moon hasn't happened yet. At first I had planned the passing of a millennium, but I really doubt that Merentha Castle would survive another thousand years, not to mention the portraits of Gerald and Andrys… I had another try with a time span of two hundred years, but presuming a second dark age on Erna in the wake of the failing of the quake wards the technological standard didn't seem plausible. So I settled for five hundred years…

Warnings: nothing in particular, just a bit foul-mouthed talk in a pub

Absent: Gerald Tarrant, who is still asleep, dreaming of Damien…;-)

Misgivings of the author: I know it's not very inventive to call Damien "Darren", but hopefully you will forgive me. It was bad enough to come up with all the names and characters, lol.

Hi, Herdcat! Tataaa! Story won't be discontinued, but I'm a bit busy at the moment...

"Holy shit, Pete, you don't really believe that superstitious crap, do you?" Mike O'Shea roared with laughter and came dangerously close to falling off his chair, spilling the better part of his ale over their table for three in the process. His ice blue eyes sparkled with more than a hint of irony and barely veiled contempt at his chubby friend's gullibility.

Despite his portliness Peter Anderson was on his feet in a blink. A lot of people underestimated the 29-year-old, failing to register the quick brain hidden behind the cherubic, good-humoured face and the corpulence of his body. In a case of emergency Anderson could be astoundingly quick despite his bulk, a fact well-known to his colleagues at Jaggonath's most prestigious hospital.

"Dear God, Mike, can't you be careful for once? This is a working lunch for two aspiring heart surgeons plus company of an incompetent police officer, not a stag night revelry. You ruined my shirt, you ass!

"Stop whining into your pillow and sit down, mate. I'll buy you a new one as soon as I've caught that bunch of forgers and get promoted to inspector. But come on, Pete, that nonsense of a treasure hidden in the remains of the Hunter's keep deep within the Forbidden Forest is nothing but a preposterous fairy tale. If somebody dared to venture there I'd bet a year's salary that all they'd ever find were fucking mosquitoes, and if they don't get sucked dry by those fiendish little beasts they might die of plain boredom instead.

"I'm not so sure", Anderson replied thoughtfully. "And what about the Hunter? I know a bloke at the hospital whose great-great-great aunt, don't ask me how many 'greats', was reportedly killed by that ancient monster. She had just turned nineteen when she was abducted from her home and brought into the Forest by the Hunter's minions, and no one saw her again ever after. Quite an unsettling story, if you ask me. "

Mike O'Shea snorted disgustedly. "Yeah, one always knows a bloke who knows a bloke who… And so on. A tale to frighten children into obedience, that's exactly what it is. My own mother, God rest her soul, used it to keep me in line if I had been too naughty. What", he added with a mischievous grin, "came down to _most of the time_."

Anderson shook his head. "And how do you explain what happened to the young fellow who was admitted to our hospital a few years ago? At that time Darren and I were still poorly paid, overworked junior doctors, but I can picture the boy as if it was yesterday, all bloated and covered with a festering rash. He was rotting alive, may the Lord give him peace. God, the stench! I had never seen anything like that before, and I don't want to ever again, believe me. Do you remember, Darren?"

Dragged from his reverie Darren Mitchell looked at his two friends, so unlike in appearance and character. The lean Mike O'Shea with his angular features that matched his personality, a Doubting Thomas who believed in nothing but pure rationalism, and kind-hearted, portly Pete Anderson, one of the finest physicians he'd ever had the honour to meet.

Darren nodded, not quite trusting his voice and barely managing to suppress a shiver. Yes, he remembered all too well, the scent of rotting flesh, pus and death flooding his brain in an olfactory hallucination that very nearly made him gag. The staff had tried everything on the boy, from antibiotics to natural medicine, but to no avail, and his death throes had been long and agonizing.

Nevertheless that hadn't been the worst of it, not for Mitchell, anyway. If you were a physician you better learned soon that sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stall death, your intimate foe, just relieve the suffering of your patient. The young trainee doctor had been prepared to accept that, but the poor boy's hallucinations had been an altogether different matter, hitting home too closely to his own very private problems for his taste.

"Give me proof, just one, bloody proof, that the poor sod didn't just die from a rare, lethal virus, Peter. Regrettable, certainly, but things like that happen, you know. You are a doctor, mate. You should know better than I do that vicious illnesses can befall human beings. Poisonous roses, really! Perhaps even from your precious Hunter's private garden?" O'Shea's light tenor dripped with sarcasm, and he buried his aquiline nose in a fresh glass of ale with a disparaging snort.

Pete Anderson calmly gazed at his chortling friend, completely unfazed by his acerbic tongue. "You weren't there, Mike. You didn't witness the boy's visceral terror, his terrified attempts to escape the clutches of an unearthly threat he called the 'angel of death'. We had to tie him to the bed, may God forgive us, while he screamed himself hoarse, begging the staff to save him from a white-faced apparition with glittering silver eyes. Of course it's very likely that this creature was just a hallucination, spawned by the poor lad's feverish delirium, but those desperate outcries will haunt me to my dying day. Call me a sissy, but just to think of it gives me the shivers."

Cold sweat broke out on Darren's brow, and he gritted his teeth. '_A white-faced apparition with glittering silver eyes_.' Dear God, he had to get away from the seething throng of punters for a moment, or he would disgrace himself by being sick all over the table. Swallowing down a mouthful of acid bile he made for the men's room, completely oblivious to Anderson's quizzical glance.

The privy smelled of stale beer, urine and even more unpleasant substances, and Mitchell had to suppress another vicious bout of nausea, but at least he was alone with his confused thoughts for a moment. Sighing with relief he splashed his flushed face generously with cold water and closed his green eyes, leaning to the grubby tiles for support. If his friends knew what was going on inside his head they might call for those unpleasant, husky men who were quite apt at wielding a straight jacket, and Darren couldn't blame them.

In those dreaded visions which had started in his early teens fleeting pictures of strange landscapes and creatures warred with half-known faces welling up from his imagination, just to sink into oblivion again a few seconds later. Some of the landscapes Darren recognized, had even travelled there while on vacation. Mount Shaitan, for example, was easily accessible on the new Highway 64, and some of the more enterprising Iezu made a formidable living from running an exclusive mountain resort, including a cable railway to the crater.

Disturbingly the Mount Shaitan from the depths of his imagination had no resemblance to the sophisticated tourist trap he remembered from his holiday, whatsoever. The sinister surroundings looked threatening beyond his wildest imagination, and a feeling of certain doom made his hairs stand on end.

But that wasn't the worst of his hallucinations. Not nearly as bad as that shockingly familiar alabaster face dominated by arresting, grey eyes flecked with silver, eyes that were locked on him with desperate intensity while the unknown man, standing at the crater's edge, prepared himself to die. Gerald. Darren knew with irrefutable certainty that the stranger's name was Gerald, and that he went to his death, but he had no idea who the man was. Or why his feeling of crushing loss surpassed anything he had ever experienced in his real life.

By chance Mitchell had stumbled across an old volume of inestimable value at the famous Jaggonath library while researching for his studies in pulmonary diseases, and immersing himself into his work he had suddenly come face to face with a drawing of Andrys Tarrant, the last Neocount of Merentha, who had died young of a hereditary heart condition roughly five hundred years ago. The Neocount was still reverently remembered by a lot of people for slaying the legendary Hunter, one of the nastier abominations that had roamed Erna's darkness in her youth.

To Mitchell's astonishment apart from the differing eye colour Andrys could have been the mysterious stranger's twin. Maybe he wasn't just going crazy, and his peculiar daydreams had a real foundation, but try as he might he had never been able to find out more. A man by the name of Gerald Tarrant had never existed, as far as Erna's chronicles were concerned. Not even the investigation of his friend Michael, who naturally had access to the police's data banks, had produced a result.

Drawing some deep breaths to calm down the young physician pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and dried his tired face. Things hadn't gone too well in his private life lately, and being dumped by his lover still hurt, although Darren couldn't deny that Gary had had a point in accusing him of emotional withdrawal.

"I don't complain about the sex, Darren", his mate had pointed out exasperatedly, "but when it comes down to showing some emotions you're so damn indifferent that I feel like living with a handsome marble statue. I simply can't take this any longer". That unpleasant discussion had been the coup de grace for their long-term relationship, and Gary had moved out of their shared flat about a week later.

With a heartfelt sigh Mitchell pulled himself together and returned to the crowded taproom. The atmosphere had changed considerably, and one could have heard a pin drop while each and every customer of the Coach and Horses stared spell-bounded at the huge flat screen that had been rented by the landlord for this special occasion.

In a few hours humankind would dare its first steps on one of their moons, Domina, an unbelievable event the media had been raving about for months now, and each and every TV station on Erna was broadcasting the final preparations for the launch of the impressive, snow white "Voyager" due at 15 p.m. the very day. At long last humanity would break the chains that had bound them to Erna and reach for the stars again to reclaim what had been lost with the First Sacrifice.

_That would have meant so much to him!_ The floating thought stopped the fair-haired man dead in his tracks, and he had to sit down rather abruptly at their table, his knees shaking and his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Him. Gerald. The man he had never met, but missed as if a part of himself had been cleaved away from him by brutal force, leaving his soul raw and bleeding.

Cold sweat was running down his back by now, and Mitchell had to force himself to open his clenched fists. His fingernails had dug deeply into his flesh, leaving carmine crescents in their wake, and Darren stared at the red liquid running down his palm, completely enthralled.

In a daze he brought his hand to his lips and licked at the tiny wounds. Warm copper and salt, a river of life, and the tide of unbidden memories flowed over the instable shores of his drowning self, showing him an ivory visage rising from its resting place at the crook of his throat, fixing him with those utterly inhuman predator eyes that had gone black as the heart of midnight, and a glistening drop of blood, his blood, was still clinging to thin, cold lips. The left side of his neck was burning from their icy touch, and with a strangled gurgle Darren's hands flew to upwards, clutching his throat in a desperate, protective motion that almost upset the table with its force.

'Damien!' The word was a mere whisper, gentle like a baby's breath, but laced with faeborn power so beguiling that the defences of his soul crumbled into dust and the physician staggered to his feet without even realizing that he was moving. Gerald was calling for him, needed him…

"Darren, what the hell…?" The rough, purely human voice cut through the fog of enchantment, and the hand on his arm that was pulling him down on his seat again was perfectly temperate. No demon was feeding on his lifeblood, no sword with a flame patterned hilt was hanging at his side, and the eyes that were looking at him with a rather worried expression were kind and baby blue instead of pale silver in white.

Darren, yes, that was his true name, not Damien. He was Darren Mitchell, thirty years old, born in Jaggonath, and he had neither felt tempted to wield a bloody sword yet nor had he ever been bitten by a vampire. _Yeah_, Darren though wryly, _but let's face it, Mitchell: If your visions don't have any real background you're just about loosing your marbles, aren't you? _

As far as he knew hearing voices nobody else was aware of had never been a good omen concerning one's sanity, and the overwhelming pull of those weird illusions had surpassed each and every bloody attack he had suffered already.

For a moment he had completely lost his grip on reality, had been transformed into that exhausted warrior who had endured the violation of his body and soul for the greater good and, even worse, had been doomed to stand by helplessly on Shaitan, witnessing his companion's ultimate sacrifice.

No, not just a companion, Mitchell realized with a start The naked despair and desperate longing in those hazel eyes told their own story, and the way the gaze of the tall man in those flowing revivalist robes never left the warrior's face in his last moments of life confirmed his suspicion that the two men had been more than mere allies or companions. Much more, and Darren's heart grieved for those forsaken souls and their loss.

The young physician felt a mighty headache brewing, and Mitchell buried his tired, flushed face in his shaking hands in a vain attempt to hide the tears which were blurring his sight.

"Are you all right, Darren?" Anderson inquired gently. "Dear God, man, you look as if you've seen a ghost yourself. Is it about Gary? Quite a shame that bastard walked out on you. If you want to talk about it…"

"In a way Gary was right, Pete, and I don't begrudge him leaving." With effort Mitchell met the compassionate eyes of his closest friend which had widened with baffled amazement at that unexpected statement. "And no, I don't want to talk about it, not now, anyway. Let's just say that the river of my feelings for him didn't run deeply enough for his taste, and that he got fed up with living with an _indifferent, handsome marble statue_. His words, not mine. It was due time for walking separate roads. Shit happens, Pete; let's not turn a bad comedy into a full blown drama, okay?"

Compared to the torrential flood of emotions harbored by those poor fellows up there on that blasted volcano, emotions that had been churning just below the deceptively calm surface of denial, self-control and duty, his own feelings for Gary had been rather shallow waters indeed, and Darren decided being on the mating market again was the least of his problems.

„I don't believe it. They're running the whole gamut of that crap again!" O'Shea's sardonic voice cut through their quiet conversation, and Darren looked up with a start.

During his hushed conversation with Anderson the topic had changed profoundly, the incessant interviews with space experts and professionals from the Ernan Aeronautics Space Administration having been replaced by grueling photographs of a black sports car that had crashed frontally into an ancient alteroak tree.

Last night the driver, a sympathetic young actor who had just starred in a mini series for television which celebrated the crusade and the end of the Hunter's reign of terror five hundred years ago, had died on the spot in that terrible accident, and fans from all over the country were already flocking to Jaggonath to express their condolences. No braking marks whatsoever had been found yet, and the police suspected driving under alcohol or drug influence. The part as the Hunter that had been supposed to be the unfortunate actor's ticket to fame and fortune had been the young man's last.

The media had descended like a flock of starving vultures on the eerie coincidence of the tragic accident and the impending five hundred year jubilee of the Hunter's demise due in a week, an anniversary that would be celebrated with joyous festivities all over the continent, including giggling children roaming the streets and begging for sweets, costumed as demons, knights of the church or the wicked Hunter himself.

To their amazement the horrifying pictures of the pile of metal which had once been an extravagant, pricey vehicle and the handsome visage of the late young man were replaced by the amiable, wrinkled face of Dougal Mc Coy, the retired head physician of the King's Hospital and Mitchell's and Anderson's old mentor. Naturally the interview centred on what the media called 'the Curse of the Hunter', drawing a connection between the premature death of Andrys Tarrant, the young boy who had died so miserably at their hospital and the eerie accident that had killed a young actor in the prime of his career.

"Don't try that game with an old veteran like me, son", Mc Coy chuckled amicably; "I already knew all tricks of the trade when you were still a babe in arms. Can't deny that there are more things between heaven and earth than we might ever know, but pinning down those deplorable incidents to a curse of your Hunter is a bit far fetched, don't you think so? I treated that young lad myself five years ago, but believe me that nothing ever entered the isolation ward except my staff and me. And death, unfortunately", he amended after a while.

Darren's desperate attempts to understand the conversation over the excited babble that had erupted in the taproom were nipped in the bud by just another abrupt change of the topic. The stately appearance of Mc Coy morphed into a petite, blonde woman in her late thirties who looked cool and competent in her beige business suit. The lithe figure of the famous news presenter talking rapidly into her microphone in her trademark staccato voice was framed by a recent photograph of a white, soaring edifice Mitchell instantly recognized as Merentha Castle, and he pricked up his ears.

"We've just received the incredible news that regarding Andrys Tarrant's heroical deed, the slaying of the legendary Lord of the Forest, we might have been led up the garden path for centuries. As we all know Andrys, the last Neocount of Merentha, perished young without siring a legitimate heir. Therefore the estate, but not the title that died with Andrys, was handed to a distant side line now still in possession of the property.

It's common knowledge that David Frazer, the current owner of Merentha Castle, is more frequently seen in Jaggonath's casinos and clubs than on his estate, and that his liabilities are crushing. So what are we to think about the diary of Narilka Tarrant, the last Neocountess of Merentha, which has miraculously turned up in the family's private archive, including a small portrait of the founder of the Tarrant line who has been shrouded in a veil of mystery for centuries now?"

The blonde news reporter was replaced by two portraits sharing the split screen, and Darren jumped to his feet again without even realizing what he was doing. All he was able to manage was staying on his feet, swaying like a young tree in a thunderstorm, and desperately trying to catch the meaning of the woman's agitated babbling while his hearing was severely impaired by his own ragged panting and the blood rushing to his head.

The famous oil painting of the last Neocount of Merentha was still formidable to behold. Andrys Tarrant, ever so splendid and valiant in his white armour emblazoned with the Terran sun, the delicately wrought circlet glittering on his head, represented the perfect embodiment of one of God's angels fighting for mankind's salvation, but if one dared a closer look the haunted expression on the young man's face belied the martial pose.

It wasn't the portrait of Andrys which had very nearly led to Mitchell collapsing on the spot, though, but the second painting which depicted a regal being wearing those inconvenient, flowing revivalist robes with consummate grace. Armour, circlet and the angelic features could have been a carbon copy of Andrys' portrait, but the clear eyes that stared at him with a mixture of haughty condescendence and barely veiled irony were different, pale grey in white instead of green and so utterly familiar from his accursed hallucinations that Darren's knees trembled and he desperately struggled for air while the news reporter continued with her tirade.

"Unbelievably the Neocountess stated in her private diary that the Hunter's true name was Gerald Tarrant, Andrys' ancestor and in fact the founder of the line who was created Neocount for his services to King Gannon. If you look at his portrait in the background you can't fail noticing the intriguing similarity between the two men. What's even more astounding is the fact that if the diary is indeed genuine Andrys didn't kill the Hunter, but let him go free without punishing him for his crimes. So did the last Neocount really deceive his fellow crusaders and the public, an outrageous fraud if there's ever been one, or do the current owners of Merentha Castle just want to make a quick buck from the current Hunter hype? Experts will doubtlessly investigate the authenticity of those incredible documents for years to come. But now back to our studio in Jaggonath, to keep you in touch with the latest news concerning humankind's journey into the depths of space."

When Mitchell came to himself again he was on the floor, his nose assaulted by a vile smell of stale, spilled ale, Anderson's woollen cardigan under his head and a wet cloth dripping into his eyes while his friends' worried faces were hovering over him like distorted, pale balloons.

"What the heck happened?" he croaked hoarsely, his tongue apparently glued to his palate.

"That's exactly what I'd like to ask _you_, pal", Anderson replied, his blue eyes never leaving the young physician's face. "One moment you were staring at the screen, your face white as a sheet, and in the next instance you jumped to your feet like a madman and started yelling 'Gerald' at the top of your lungs. I mean, even if that funny story is true that bloke's been dead for centuries, so I'm a little bit worried right now."

If Darren had felt just '_a little bit worried_' he would have counted his blessings, but as it were the whole situation scared the shit out of him. The possibility of being the reincarnated soul mate of an undead abomination which had terrorized the continent for centuries didn't exactlyexert a calming effect on one's psyche, and Darren once again had to suppress a fit of hysterical laughter. A very, very faint wave of amusement seemed to answer him, no more than a weird tickle inside his befuddled brain, but perceptible nonetheless, and everything fell into place. Suddenly Darren knew what he had to do, and three days later he and Anderson who had flatly refused to let him travel on his own were on a plane to Kale, O'Shea's acid remarks concerning presenting him with a bouquet of the Hunter's precious roses on their return still ringing in their ears.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Sleeping Beauty, Chapter Three**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Warnings: nothing worse than a bit of swearing

Still dozing: Gerald Tarrant

Author's note: As far as I can remember you are correct, Saris. Shadowy Star came up with the phrase 'hereditary heart condition', and I used it without thinking. Perhaps I will have something more to say concerning this matter soon, but for now I apologize. This is not my only story which has Andrys dying young, but from now on I will stick to 'heart attack' or 'heart failure' and hope for the best.

Argh, I'm so stupid. They have to fly to Sheva, not to Kale. Don't know how to correct an already posted chapter, but I'll try to make up for the mistake…

During their connecting flight to Sheva Darren had been very quiet, almost reclusive, refusing both the drinks and the light snacks offered by the stewardess and staring out of the window with wide, empty eyes until Peter Anderson's slight apprehension had turned into something definitely more sinister: dread. Despite their shared interest in Erna's distant past where a mysterious power called the '_fae'_ had still been Workable by sorcerers and adepts the Darren Mitchell he'd known for years now had never been inclined to ghost stories, horror movies or occult practices, but now his friend was acting like a man possessed, and each and every moment he spent at Mitchell's side, sitting on hot coals while the young physician was muttering under his breath and wringing his hands, confirmed Anderson's suspicion that something was very, very amiss with his companion.

The friends' rather gloomy mood received a further setback at the airport's car rental where they were told by a bright, chirpy young brunette that yes, of course they could rent a car, but not if they intended a ride through the Forbidden Forest. Not that any kind of silly superstition was involved, God beware, but no one had ever been foolish enough to build a road through the former realm of the Hunter, and the forbidding terrain was only accessible on horseback, if at all.

Provided with the addresses of Sheva's few remaining horse dealers they took a cab to the northern suburbs where they checked into a cheap b&b, but making concessions to his friend's increasing restlessness Anderson found himself trudging along the bustling streets of a city groaning under the worst heat wave in decades much too soon for his liking until they were stopped dead in their tracks by a veritable crowd of people blocking their pathway. A whole fleet of ambulances, police cars and fire engines were just leaving the premises, but the bystanders were still gazing completely enthralled at the remains of a building that once had obviously been a modest store.

Although the sign 'Masterson's Gift Shop' was still dangling conspicuously at a haphazard angle judged by the unbelievable havoc that had been wrecked the whitewashed house could have been bombed to pieces by some especially destructive explosives, but to Anderson's bewilderment the neighbouring shops and tenements were completely untouched. The surrounding area looked as if hit by a snow storm, but on closer inspection the white '_snowflakes'_ revealed themselves as minuscule remnants of plastic 'Voyager' models, the glorious rocket which had already accomplished its mission and was on its way back to Erna.

"Dear Lord in Heaven, Darren, what do you think…?" Peter turned aside to face his friend and the remainder of his question froze on his lips. His green eyes out of focus and an eerie smile gracing his lips Mitchell gazed at a small figure he had just picked up from the rubble, a rather crude soapstone figurine of a winged, scaly creature which bared its needle sharp fangs in unveiled menace.

'_Greetings from the Hunter' _had been carved into its base, and Anderson felt his hairs standing on end while a shiver of cold fear ran down his spine. The owner of the gift shop apparently had felt tempted to cash in on the Hunter hype by selling trashy memorabilia, and disaster - or retaliation - had followed mercilessly on the heels. First the poor teenager who had died a horrible death in their ward, then the young actor crashing his sports car, and now this eerie _accident_. A few coincidences too many for Anderson's peace of mind, and not for the first time he seriously reconsidered the wisdom of relenting to his friend's urging and travelling to the confounded north.

"Gas explosion, folks", a deep voice boomed into his left ear, and Peter Anderson nearly jumped out of his skin. "You're tourists?"

The voice belonged to a portly dark-haired fellow in his middle fifties who had squeezed his bulk into a garish grass-green suit cut in a fashion long out of date and threatening to burst at the seams at any given moment, the strange garb completed by black, buckled shoes, a canary yellow shirt and a stunning collection of mismatching rings on the stubby fingers. Anderson blinked, not quite believing his eyes, although living in the capital with its subcultures and fads one inevitably came across rather bizarre attires, and experience had taught him not to judge a book by its cover long ago. The sparkling, dark eyes and the beaming smile of the stranger easily outshone the outrageous clothing, anyway, and Peter caught himself grinning back despite his worries.

"Have you swallowed your tongues, folks? I've just asked if you were tourists. Maybe you plan to celebrate the Hunter's demise here in Kale?"

The stranger's mischievous gaze wandered from the ugly figurine upwards to Mitchell's face, and following his example Anderson's smile instantly faded into non-existence, replaced by a worried frown. Darren was staring at the bloke in undisguised marvel, his mouth hanging agape and his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Darren?" Anderson shook his friend not too gently in a desperate attempt to get him out of his daze. "Darren, what the heck is going on? Tell me mate, or I'll get you to the next hospital faster than you can say 'fuck off'. Do you understand me?"

Effortlessly Mitchell shrugged Anderson's hand off his shoulder while his feverish gaze never left the stranger's face. "I know you!"

A fleeting look of amusement passed over the jovial fellow's face, and he amicably patted Darren's right arm. "Don't think we've met before, young man. At least not recently", the stranger added with a crooked grin, and Peter Anderson could have sworn that their new acquaintance was quite busy fighting an inexplicable bout of mirth. "Karril's my name, and I'm a horse dealer, you know. Business is not quite as good as it used to be nowadays, with all those stinking vehicles crowding our streets, but it still makes a living. You don't want to buy or rent a horse by chance?"

A _horse dealer_? Though his own encounters with the horse trading profession were somewhat limited due to the complete lack of equestrian experience the physician harboured no doubts whatsoever that the bloke most certainly didn't look the part, ruled out the assumption that he also was a part-time circus manager or proud owner of a vaudeville show.

But although the man's ridiculous style of clothing was certainly amusing Anderson had other problems to worry about, for example Darren's unsettling behaviour and the strange accumulation of even stranger coincidences. They had already called several addresses on their short list, and to their dismay negotiations had invariably come to a standstill when they had named their destination. Travelling through the Forest? The Hunter's Realm? Not for love or money it had been possible to rent a horse, but one more business-minded – or less horse-loving- entrepreneur of the lot had offered to sell two of his beasts at a truly outrageous price. Even if the two friends had considered paying through the nose for a pair of miserable old nags who were likely to go to horse heaven at the worst possible moment the estimated total exceeded their meagre budget by far.

Regarding the indisputable fact that Anderson had no intention of trekking through the forest on foot in their vain search for a castle in the air they were stuck in Sheva, and deep down in his heart the physician had to admit that he wouldn't be too disappointed if he somehow were able to convince Mitchell to take the next plane back to Jaggonath. But as luck would have it they had bumped into the right man by chance, if it truly _had_ been luck, that is. Although Anderson was by no means a superstitious man the peculiar incidents and Darren's queer mood were slowly but surely taking their toll on him, and he was already starting to see ghosts lurking in every dark corner. In the name of good old Aesculapius, if Mike O'Shea could see him now, quaking in his boots at the sight of that likeable fellow in his pathetic outfit, his sarcastic friend wouldn't let him live that superstitious imbecility down to his dying day…

In a hopefully quite inconspicuous manner Peter Anderson's gaze darted about the accursed, useless piece of not paper which was crumpling in his sweaty hand, but as he had secretly suspected no dealer called Karril had been listed. Damn!

"Oh, don't worry about that, my friend", the booming voice interrupted his musings, and meeting the stranger's dark gaze Anderson's misgivings were instantly swept away by a wave of heart-warming sympathy. "Folks like me are not on the official lists, but you can trust me. Where do you want to travel, by the way?"

"The Forest", Darren's voice piped in, and Anderson felt torn between the likewise tempting urges of smacking his forehead and closing his fingers around his unfortunate companion's throat, the very companion who hadn't uttered so much as a single words since his outburst, but had deigned to add his two cents at exactly the wrong moment, thereby eliminating all possibilities for a bad-mannered, but nonetheless very advisable white lie in the process.

To Peter Anderson's surprise the disclosure of their infamous destination wasn't followed by the by now utterly familiar horrified gasp and hasty retreat, but with a wholly unforeseen reaction of the dark-haired stranger instead.

"Ah, the forest", Karril repeated gently, but with an odd undercurrent in his low voice which made Peter Anderson's hairs stand on end. "It's about time."

"Yes, I know", Darren nodded, his green eyes glazed over with yearning, and Anderson had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. By now he was quite sure that something very strange was going on, something uncanny that couldn't simply be attributed to chance and an overworked friend suffering from a bad bout of nerves, and he'd be damned if he courted disaster by walking blindly into whatever ingenious trap which had been set for their benefit.

_Maybe you will indeed be damned_ _if you make a mistake_ a very frightened voice in Anderson's brain begged for attention, a thoroughly uncomfortable thought which didn't do much for lightening his mood but provoked a rare attack of irritability instead.

"What do you mean with your bloody '_it's about time_', man?" the portly physician barked with rising exasperation. "If you've got something on your mind just spill the beans! My friend here hasn't been quite himself recently, and you're not doing him a favour with your veiled hints."

"That's quite enough, Pete. I'm neither a vulking lunatic nor a helpless schoolboy" a quiet, but nonetheless very resolute voice cut into his agitated ranting, and Anderson shut his mouth in complete bafflement. One minute ago his friend had looked completely beside himself, and now Darren rebuked him with the calm authority of a man accustomed to giving orders and seeing them executed. Slowly but surely the whole blasted situation reminded him of patients suffering from a multiple personality disorder. "

Karril chuckled, apparently utterly unfazed by Anderson's outburst. "Of course you aren't, _Darren_. And it's much too warm to get uptight, Mer Anderson. I just think it's about time that somebody daring ventured into the forest and put an end to all those ridiculous rumours about hidden treasures and nocturnal creatures still roaming the Hunter's former realm. In our age of enlightenment that kind of superstitious nonsense should have fallen into oblivion long ago. Don't you agree with me?"

Looking into the guileless dark eyes Anderson did indeed agree without sparing a further thought on the strange inflection on 'Darren' and the bottomless fountain of glee which was obviously bubbling just below the stranger's composed façade. In fact he didn't even remember that neither Mitchell nor he himself had ever mentioned their names, and forgetting all about his scruples he consented to have a look at the stranger's animals at the very least.

Fortunately the friends in Karril's tow didn't have to walk the boiling streets for long until they reached the northern rural outskirts of the city again, and there, on a patch of sunburned meadow but partly shadowed from the blazing heat by an open shed, grazed about a dozen unhorses with shiny, well-groomed coats.

To Anderson's astonishment Mitchell instantly walked up to the magnificent beasts, patting their soft nostrils and inspecting their teeth and long, slender limbs with the confident casualness of a seasoned equestrian that he couldn't help but marvel at the baffling scene, but after roasting in the sun's furnace for about ten minutes the merciless heat and his impatience got the better of him.

"Don't want to be a spoilsport, mate, but don't you think we should leave the selection to the expert?"

"Not necessary, Pete", Darren replied confidently, and once again Anderson was taken aback by the utter conviction in Mitchell's voice which was usually reserved for his professional life. "See the sturdy brown gelding grazing at the fence? He's strong but meek and won't cause you any problems. The grey beauty here is for me," his friend added with a smile and stroked the mare's shiny neck. Nickering in response she bent down her graceful neck to inspect Darren's pockets, searching for a treat of carrots and apples, and the young physician patted her neck again and laughed heartily.

"Seems you've made a friend, Darren! She likes you."

Evidently Karril was right and after all those weeks of misery the long lost sound of Mitchell's laughter to some extend eased the heavy burden on Anderson's shoulders. Maybe travelling north hadn't been a mistake, after all, but some nagging doubts lurking in the hidden recesses of his mind were still rather insistently calling for an audience albeit his efforts to shrug them off.

"Where the heck did you learn to handle horses, mate? The way you deal with them one should think you've got years and years of riding experience."

"Years and years?" Mitchell blinked and shook his head in bewilderment. "I've always been fond of horses since I was a small kid and kept nagging my poor parents until they forked up the money for a few riding lessons, but that's about it. Call me a nutcase, but I just somehow, well, _knew_ what to look for…" he trailed off and shrugged rather perplexedly.

"And you chose well, my friend", Karril cut in smoothly. "Those two beasts are my best unhorses, and if you treat them properly they won't let you down. If you want to be off early in the morning you have to buy your provisions and camping equipment this afternoon. Go to John Harper's Wholesale in Bond Street, and don't forget to tell the old rascal that his friend Karril sent you; might save you clueless tourists from getting ripped off. Oh, and don't penny-pinch on your viands", the horse dealer added with an innocent smile, "you can never know what might befall you on a trip through the woods, and you folks certainly don't want to spend your holiday starving."

Maybe they hadn't exactly been ripped off due to their new acquaintance, but the better part of their meagre cash had wandered into Harper's pockets, anyway, and grudgingly the two friends agreed on walking back to deposit their new acquisitions in Karril's stable instead of taking a cab.

Burdened with their supplies of brown bread, beans, assorted fruits and dried meat plus the inevitable blankets, sleeping bags and cooking gear the short twenty minutes walk back to Karril's premises seemed like the road to hell. Mitchell trotted on stoically, but the chubby Peter Anderson was bathed in sweat, his face flushed a bright tomato red and his lungs desperately puffing for air, and when they at long last arrived at their destination he steadfastly refused to walk back to their lodgings, much to his friend's dismay.

A grinning Karril jingling tantalizingly with a bunch of car keys soothed the rising tempers, and the two men agreed on accepting the ride without further discussion, but were forced to reconsider their wisdom as soon as they came face to face with a rusty pick-up which looked as if he' been produced in the pioneering days of the automobile industry. Preparing for the worst Anderson and Mitchell entered the rust bucket, and unfortunately they weren't disappointed.

Perhaps Karril had won his driving license in last week's national lottery, or alternatively he was well acquainted with the bunch of forgers Mike O'Shea was so keen on arresting, but try as he might Anderson couldn't possibly imagine that the damned horse-coper had ever passed a regular driving test. In complete ignorance of traffic signs or crossing pedestrians Karril raced on like a man possessed, and after about five minutes of gut wrenching horror the physician couldn't take it any longer and squeezed his eyes shut, muttering the Lord's prayer under his hitching breath.

It was already late afternoon when the two aspiring heart surgeons finally arrived at their boarding house, drenched in sweat and at the limits of their endurance, and after a cold shower and gorging on a pile of cheese and ham sandwiches kindly provided by their landlady they lost no time to throw themselves into Morpheus' arms.

A few hours later their exhausted slumber was disturbed by a tremendous thunderstorm, and for a few unnerving hours of crashing thunder and blinding flashes of lightning another involuntary delay was looming over their enterprise, but in the early hours of the morning the fierce squalls and the sound of rain lashing against their windows died down, and at six a.m. the sky had cleared up considerably and promised another sunny day.

Luckily, however, the awful heat had seemingly been cooled down by several degrees, and inhaling the fresh morning air and listening to the twittering birds to his amazement Anderson felt a hint of enterprising spirit stirring inside him, and remembering yesterday's worries he chuckled. Nerves and weird chances had temporarily gotten the better of him, and no unearthly monsters would be waiting for them, ready to devour them whole. Of course they wouldn't find anything more threatening than brambles and mosquitoes, and when his poor friend had finally accepted that he was chasing an illusion they could return to Jaggonath, a nice yarn in their pocket.

On their arrival at Karril's meadow the first surprise of the day was waiting for them, although a rather pleasant one. Free of charge the horse dealer had provided a pack horse, and the better part of their equipment had already been stored on the animal's back. Despite his lack of knowledge concerning imposing, four-legged beasts Anderson couldn't help but wondering why the heck this magnificent black stallion befitting a prince had been chosen for this rather undignified task instead of one of Karril's plainer animals, but as his friend Darren seemed to take the unexpected development in his stride without so much as a flinch he kept his mouth shut and settled for an inward shaking of his head, adding the additional presence of the gorgeous horse to all the other impossibilities which already occurred to them over the last week.

After trading some niceties with Karril the two men mounted their unhorses and set off at eight o' clock, riding into their adventure in pleasantly high spirits. When a few hours had passed the farmland with its meadows and cornfields swaying softly in the gentle breeze, interspersed with small, sleepy hamlets which hadn't changed much since the Hunter's time, was replaced by fallow land, and in the distance the infamous forest was already visible like a dark wall erected from wood and terror.

Taking refugee from the late morning sun under a solitary, ancient alteroak the two friends tied their horses to the tree and reclined in the shade for a late second breakfast. Anderson was very well aware that his restless companion would have preferred going on without stopping for a break, but his damned bottom had simply cried out for at least half an hour out of the bloody saddle, and albeit of having pushed several layers of a woollen blanket under his tortured behind he laboriously shifted his weight from one nether cheek to the other, grunting with discomfort. Dear God of Earth and Erna, Darren was no less a city slicker than he himself, but evidently he didn't mind the ride, and his arse seemed to be made from iron, not from tender human flesh.

Anyhow the physician couldn't stop wondering about Mitchell. Darren had snapped out of his uncanny mental absence at exactly the right time and had planned their trip and bought their camping equipment and supplies with surprising circumspection, and if Anderson hadn't known better he would have sworn that his friend had spent the better part of his life out in the open. Mitchell had shrugged off his companion's bewildered inquiries with a sheepish grin, and Anderson would have wagered a year's salary that his friend wasn't any wiser than himself concerning the source of his astounding knowledge.

Refreshed by a couple of sandwiches and hot, sweet coffee from a thermos flask the two men climbed back into the saddle, Mitchell with unnerving ease, Anderson moaning and groaning. After another hour of riding at a moderate pace they finally reached the foothills of the forest, and Peter Anderson goggled in complete disbelief.

Like everybody else he had expected a gloomy, sinister forest with gnarled, mutated trees, inaccessible undergrowth and maybe some nasty predators on top of their misfortune, but up to now he was pleasantly surprised. A light woodland of alteroaks, nubeeches and occasional not pines stretched around them, the sunlight flickering through the canopy allowing a dense, but not oppressive ground cover. Birds were singing in the branches, small mammals were rustling in the underbrush, and the atmosphere was as peaceful as one could imagine. No traces of the Lord of the Forest's evil creatures which had guarded their Master on this very soil and had ambushed unwary travelers remained except in the hazy realm of fables and legends.

The monotonous rustling of the foliage, the warm sun flickering through the green leaves who'd been washed clean by the night's torrential rain, the muffled treads of their three unhorses and their occasional snort provided a soporific background lullaby to their leisurely ride, and in spite of his aching butt Anderson dozed off more than once and almost fell off his brown gelding, a failing which earned him an amused grin by his companion. Noon was long gone, and the sun had already started its journey towards the western horizon, but the two men still rode on despite their increasing exhaustion until the trees parted and allowed an unobstructed view of an utterly incredible scenario.

In ancient volumes Anderson had seen pictures of the Hunter's stronghold which had supposedly been drawn according to the testimony of some of the victorious crusaders, but if this breathtakingly beautiful nightmare of a revivalist castle with its dainty finials, perpendicular windows and delicate arches had ever stood on this site the explosives of the Church's troops and the elements had wiped it off the face of the planet a long time ago. With a little bit of luck remnants of the foundations and the underground vaults were still accessible if anybody was crazy enough to risk breaking his daring neck, but to figure that out the inquisitive soul would have to remove the dazzling carpet of wild roses first which filled the whole clearing.

_If O'Shea could see this_, Anderson thought wistfully, _the disbelieving son of a bitch would freak out. The roses of the Hunter, dammit!_

So evidently the poor teen hadn't been delirious when he had told them about the devilish poisonous roses, and may Heaven forbid that his other 'hallucinations' had a likewise real background. Anderson shivered, but his blooming uneasiness exploded to stultifying horror when he had to watch his closest friend dismount and wander towards the alluring wall of red and white petals as in a trance. Peter Anderson was off his gelding in one mighty jump he wouldn't have thought himself capable of in his wildest dreams and started running.

"Are you completely nuts now, man?" Anderson yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice breaking with sheer terror. "For the love of God, Darren, just pull yourself together and don't move! I'll be with you in a second."

Apparently his horrified shrieks had somehow made it through to Mitchell's fogged brain, and the young man stopped his walk into death's gaping maw a scarce two feet short of the beguilingly beautiful roses. The portly physician's knees buckled, and he very nearly collapsed on the spot with relief. Hell, he'd never been able to forgive himself if his enchanted friend had walked into his undoing right before his eyes. Just to stay on the safe side Anderson closed his hand around Mitchell's left upper arm like a vise before he shifted his attention to the odd flowers, the curious scientist inside him finally getting the better of his compunctions.

At first sight the wild roses seemed utterly normal if a touch too perfect in form and colour, but wrinkling his nose Peter Anderson noticed a heavy odour which seemed to wrap around his defenceless human senses like a sheer veil of alluring seduction. Upon closer inspection the flowers revealed a much more deadly secret: approximately two inches long vicious thorns were coated with a clear liquid and Anderson didn't doubt that this very fluid glittering so harmlessly in the late evening sun contained the lethal poison which had killed the unfortunate teenager years ago. Fuck! Perhaps they had crossed an invisible barrier on their journey and had left their modern, sober planet, just to wake up in a bloody fairytale, but the physician was quite sure that he wasn't keen on meeting the kind of fairies fond of inhabiting these malevolent floral killers.

Thinking it better to err on the side of caution Anderson dragged his spaced out colleague a few steps further back and trotted to his horse to fetch a test tube from one of his saddle bags, a piece of equipment he wisely hadn't told Mitchell about. The whole operation had lasted only a few seconds, but when he whirled around to return to his friend and the fascinating plants he nearly succumbed to a stroke.

One single moment of carelessness had been sufficient to court disaster, and Darren was wandering down a narrow path which had evidently been cleared specifically for him by those blasted roses from hell. More and more thorny tendrils were giving way to let to let the young man pass, beckoning him invitingly with their treacherous beauty and seductive odour, while the path behind him was already growing over again. Without thinking twice Anderson tried to rush after Mitchell, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a vicious vine lashing through the air just an inch short of his flustered face.

„DARREN!"

Slowly, ever so slowly Darren Mitchell turned around to face his long-time friend and colleague, and the expression – or lack thereof – on his visage made Anderson's hairs stand on end. No muscle moved in the mask which had been an animated, handsome face not long ago, and the green eyes were completely blank, windows to a fathomless emptiness where his friend couldn't follow.

"Dear God, Darren", Peter Anderson whispered, close to tears of helpless despair. "Don't leave me alone. Come back, or let me go with you."

For a second a hint of awareness returned to Mitchell's eyes, accompanied by a fleeting expression of compassion and sorrow, but then his features hardened again, and he shook his head and walked on while the roses continued covering his path, extinguishing all traces of his existence in the process.

Author's note number two: Well, at first I had planned to let the story end with the famous wake-up-kiss (or maybe a bit more than a kiss...), but it's quite tempting to continue or write a sequel. Just imagine Gerald Tarrant exploring 'our' modern world. They could ride a motorbike, visit a disco or maybe a sex shop (lol!), and I can't get the picture of an overenthusiastic model scout out of my mind... I might be nuts, but just imagine Tarrant's face if he agrees in his vanity and the make-up artists with their powder and eyeliner approach. I hope Darren/Damien can prevent the worst...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

Warnings: Now it is due time for Darren to rescue Tarrant from the realms of sleep by an adult version of the famous wake-up kiss; slash, accordingly, but nothing too steamy (at least not in this chapter…).

Author's note 1: I know that I didn't mention Gerald's ugly scar; let's just presume that the fairy godmother Saris spirited it away along with his bruises and the offending filth… After all we're in a fairy tale, aren't we?

Author's note 2: I suppose the books and especially the torch should have crumbled into dust a long time ago, but the whole interior has been frozen in time along with the Sleeping Beauty…

Author's note 3: Decided to split this chapter; so there will be one more and possibly a sequel. I will be very busy till Christmas; got kind of promoted at work, meaning working harder and longer hours with the lamentable absence of a noteworthy higher salary…;-(, so I'm not sure whether I will have a sufficient amount of spare time to work on my ongoing projects. Sorry for the delay. I'm reasonably sure I can finish this fic, though, because the better part of the final chapter has already been written, and maybe post another chapter of "Love is stronger…", but that's about it, I'm afraid… With a bit of luck and some inspiration there might be a short Christmas ficlet as well, presumably a sequel to "Under the Mistletoe". Let's just hope for the best!

Author's note 4: Many thanks for the gorgeous '_"What the f***, Vryce, what exactly have you been doing all these years?"' _inspiration, Black Dragon's Ghost...;-). Although I changed the words a bit you'll see soon that your hilarious sentence definitely left an impact...

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo

Mitchell walked on in his daze until the roses gave access to the crumbling remains of obsidian black walls and a flight of stairs descending downwards into a menacing, saturnine darkness unlit by a single ray of light since the crusaders had attacked the Hunter's domain and Andrys Tarrant had left the premises, his gruesome task accomplished and the same shaking hand which had dealt the fatal blow tightly fisted into the blood matted hair of what was supposed to be the severed head of the first Neocount of Merentha.

Groping his way along the wall until he felt a faint draft on his face and the stonework of the creepy tunnel ended rather abruptly Darren stumbled and fell to his knees, completely disorientated by his sudden grasp at nothing, but in the next instance a dozen wax candles seemingly ignited all by themselves, and he blinked like an owl. To his amazement Mitchell found himself in a rather small chamber which must have represented a veritable treasure vault of knowledge a long time ago, lined with lashings of shelves that had certainly once been brimming with the precious ancient books and manuscripts whose better part was littering the stone floor now, mangled beyond recognition and defiled. This act of mindless barbarism shocked the young physician out of the uncanny enchantment which had kept him enthralled, and for a while he stood rooted to the spot, wondering where the heck he was and how he had come to this strange site in the first place.

Vaguely Mitchell remembered flying from Jaggonath to Kale and then on to Sheva and travelling on horseback through an ancient forest in a desperate search for something pricelessly dear to his heart but lost in the mists of time, remembered his trusted friend and colleague Peter Anderson screaming at him, begging him to come back, but try as he might he couldn't make head or tail of the weird situation. The Second Sacrifice had put the cybosh on the involuntary spawning of faeborn demonlings which had made the terrestrial colonists' lives a misery since their early days on Erna and their unholy prowls for human prey the elderly still only dared to talk in hushed whispers about, but very much ill at ease and more than slightly worried about his prolonged memory lapse Darren briefly wondered whether his addled mind had been under the thumb of a very capable specimen of said baneful entities and had succumbed to a demonic lure so overwhelming that he had danced to its seducing tune like a puppet on a string. Then his gaze locked on a still figure resting atop a trestle table, and his memories returning to him with a vengeance Darren stood rooted to the spot, not able to move a limb.

For an instance the cramped, subterranean chamber frozen in time for half a millennium faded into non-existence, and Darren was once again transported to the smouldering inferno of lava and sulphur which could have very well provided the grisly inspiration for John Dermott's twisted, infamous paintings of hell, joining his screams with Tarrant's bloodcurdling death cries when the untameable power of Shaitan roared through the adept's undead body and the shadows of death choked the spark of life in the startling silver eyes. Gerald collapsed in a heap, his corpse bathed in the first rays of the merciless sun rising at the very moment when the light of his companion's life was extinguished at a single, devastating blow, and the bitter taste of volcanic ash and the salt of hot tears mingling on his cracked lips despair so bottomless, so crushing raced through his body that its acrid embrace proved a far deadlier threat than the lethal breath of the volcano.

Lost in his grief Mitchell wasn't even aware that drops of glowing dust were singing the exposed parts of tanned skin and the lungs of his alter ego which had crumbled into dust along with their owner long ago were burning with the scorching fumes of Mount Shaitan thankfully filtered through the thin Worked veil protecting his tearstained face, but at long last awareness of his surroundings returned to him, and gathering his wits he pulled himself together and approached the centre of his attention on shaky legs, his ragged breath cutting through the oppressive silence like the heavy blade he had only wielded in his past-life regressions so far. Fraught with anxiety Mitchell kept his gaze firmly locked on the ground, much too terrified to dare a closer look yet.

His unbidden visions had left no doubt that the Hunter had died on Shaitan that day so many years ago, but however it had come to pass the mortal man Gerald Tarrant must have been resurrected from the realms of the dead, just to be killed again by his last living descendant. Such was the story that had been passed down generations until the bubble had finally burst last week and the world had been confronted with the unbelievable revelation that Andrys Tarrant's fame and glory might have been based on an outright scam, but close to panicking and turning tail like a frightened rabbit the young physician simply refused to get his hopes up too much. If there was just a grain of truth to be found in the coverage of the yellow press David Frazer, the current owner of Merentha Castle, was an irresponsible, whoring and gambling son of a bitch, and Mitchell by all means considered it possible that Frazer had forged the suspect diary of the last Neocountess of Merentha to cash in on the Hunter hype in order to meet the demands of his numerous creditors.

If the old tales were to believed the Hunter's severed head had been committed to the flames, and so he presumably would have to face a decapitated, mummified corpse, the body dried out to an empty husk in the suffocating, low oxygen air of the modest chamber, and all his irrational hopes for the future would shatter into a thousand needle-sharp shards of loss and sorrow aimed at his fallible human heart. Alternatively it was very well possible that the dead man resting in peace on the trestle table for centuries wasn't Gerald Tarrant at all, but a complete stranger, maybe one of the crusaders who had met his death during the attack on the legendary black fortress of the Lord of the Forest, but what truly brought the cold sweat to Mitchell's brow was the admittedly far fetched possibility that the fellow was indeed _his_ Gerald and miraculously alive, sustained by an unimaginable ancient Working far beyond his powers of imagination, but that the former Hunter would give him the cold shoulder without so much as a second thought, anyway. It stuck out a mile that the brave soul yielding up to its fate on the volcano with belying serenity had been deeply attached to his companion, but that said companion had died five hundred years ago, in an age long gone by when unholy demons were still hunting their human prey and the memory of sorcerers and adepts manipulating the fae for their own benefit hadn't been banished from living memory to the realms of fables and fairy tales.

Mitchell wasn't sure whether he would survive such a cruel joke of fate, but drawn to the motionless body like a moth to a flame he stepped closer and hesitantly raised his eyes from the so very interesting irregularities of the stone slabs to the still figure on the table.

Layers of midnight blue silk shrouding a tall, lean frame weren't quite obscuring the view of a heavily embroidered empty scabbard, and Darren's blood turned to ice water in his veins. _Oh dear God, he threw his blazing sword into the crater when he prepared to die. I remember it!_ 'With this sacrifice (…) I bind you to me' (CoS, page 414) Gerald had solemnly pronounced at the crater's edge, and the sword had indeed represented his first sacrifice. The second one had been his death.

The devastating memories from another life which had ended so many centuries prior to his own birth at long last got the better of Darren for a while, and he buried his face into his hands and gave in to the dry sobs which forced themselves out of his aching chest until a very faint sound cut through his misery, no more than a whisper in the wind, and had him on full alert at once. What the heck…?

His eyes widening with perplexed incredulity Mitchell held his breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, the silk clad chest rose and fell, and a faint sigh mixed with his own hyperventilating gasps. _Holy crap!_ Whoever was resting here in the crumbling remains of the Hunter's keep was by no means a corpse but a living, breathing human being, and palpitating with fear but dredging up the last reserves of his courage Darren let his gaze wander upwards to the stranger's head, resigning himself to the undeniable fact that the time to face destiny had finally come.

_Oh!_ With his blond hair, green eyes and regular features the young physician had always had his fair share of suitors male and female alike, but Mitchell would have been the first one to admit that his own handsome face wasn't able to hold a candle to what was undoubtedly the most breathtakingly beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on. The stunning picture of the regal warrior in his white and golden armour which had very nearly driven him over the edge a mere week ago hadn't quite done reality justice, and feasting his eyes on the tranquil, delicate face with its perfect proportions Darren couldn't resist and caressed the flawless alabaster skin with his index finger. The stranger who wasn't a stranger at all stirred faintly under the touch, and when the pale eyelids with their long, brown lashes fluttered slightly Mitchell opted for a gentle nudge, his heart in his mouth. "Hey! Gerald! Wake up!"

Five minutes and a fair amount of shaking and yelling later the man on the trestle table was still sleeping peacefully, and Darren was at his wit's end. _Just face it Mitchell_, the physician wryly reprimanded himself, _you have dropped from the real world into a bloody fairy tale, and you know very well what is expected from the young prince who enters the enchanted castle to redeem the Sleeping Beauty. You might be anything but a fucking nobleman, but he definitely looks the part, so why don't you just give it a try. Nobody's here to witness your idiocy._

Feeling like the biggest nutcase on the whole blasted planet Mitchell bent down, placed a chaste peck on a surprisingly warm mouth and held his breath, but other than a repetition of the barely audible sigh nothing spectacular happened. "Come on, you bastard, wake up!" Darren groaned with rising exasperation. "If you're the man I believe you to be you've truly napped long enough."

Talking to a brick wall presumably would have achieved the same disappointing result, and cursing himself three times a fool the young physician dared a second try, deepening the kiss on a sudden impulse. Mitchell very nearly jumped out of his skin when all at once slender but very determined arms were pulling him into a tight embrace and soft lips parted under his own with a tantalizing, longing moan, but the cognitive functions of his brain rapidly shutting down he surrendered to the astonishing development without a touch of resistance, savouring the plundering of Gerald's mouth and the sharing of breaths and tentative caresses until the body in his arms went rigid and grey eyes snapped open, staring at him in utter bewilderment.

Darren never found out how it had come to pass, but in the next instance he was on the bloody table with Tarrant hovering over him like God's angel of death in an especially lethal mood, an assessment of the situation disturbingly confirmed by the sharp blade pressed to his throat. "How can you dare? Who are you?"

The Awakened Beauty evidently wasn't suffering from a kind of time lag caused by five hundred years of undisturbed slumber, and remembering that in all probability the very man who was glowering menacingly at him now had been identical with the legendary Hunter half a millennium ago Mitchell presumed it best to tread very, very carefully. "Well, you see", he rasped, "it's a rather complicated story, and I don't quite understand myself what has happened, but…"

A hint of unveiled impatience clouded the fair visage, and Darren cut off his incoherent babbling with a gasp when a tendril of a foreign presence invaded his mind, probing, analyzing and leafing through his soul like an open book, a presence alien but yet so utterly familiar that he very nearly burst into tears again. A violent shudder shook the lean frame so close to him, and the young physician couldn't help but marvelling what kind of impact the technological wonders of the modern world filed in his brain might have on a man who had lived his mortal life in the Revivalist period almost 1500 years ago, not to mention digesting the fact that one had been out cold for the last five hundred years and had just been kissed alive by the reincarnated soul of a long deceased companion. Tarrant swallowed convulsively and blinked, and to Mitchell's relief the dagger was lowered ever so slowly. "Vryce? What on Earth and Erna took you so long?"

Well, if that wasn't a tricky question, but any attempt to untangle the knot of chaotic events spanning centuries was nipped in the bud when he was pushed gently backwards, Gerald's lithe body following him down gracefully in a soft hiss of silk. "Just wait a minute", Darren croaked hoarsely, "what the hell are you up to now?"

The adept's eyes were flashing with unveiled amusement, and the devilish smile on the angelic features simply took Mitchell's breath away. "Just what I should have done five hundred years ago, Vryce. I suggest we postpone our mutual enlightenment for a while and move on to more pleasant occupations, shall we?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooo

Peter Anderson was running around the grass in small circles, raking his hair in despair and cursing himself the biggest fool on Erna. Dear God in Heaven, how could he ever have been so stupid and bring his addled buddy to this miserable place? The sun was setting, and only the Lord knew what would befall them if there were stranded in the Hunter's former domain during the long hours of the night. Even the horses were restless except the contentedly grazing dauntless black stallion, and for the first time since they had parted with the mysterious Karril the physician realized that the magnificent beast alone possessed hooves instead of the accustomed three toes of its Xandu ancestors. Rumours had it that only the accursed Prince of Jahanna had ever managed to breed true horses, although it was a mystery to the physician how the horse coper could have come into possession of one of the descendants of the Hunter's priceless animals which were supposed to have perished in the destruction of the Forbidden Forest.

The black stallion raised his head and whinnied, and when Anderson looked at the big teeth which seemed to sneer at him in derisive contempt he shivered. By now Mitchell's friend was ready to believe each and every uncanny tale he had ever heard about the Hunter's forest and its unhallowed denizens, and maybe even the amicable Karril was in league with the devil or whatever unknown but deadly malevolent presence that had lured them to this wretched hell-hole out in the sticks and had burdened him with a demon in the guise of a horse to make his modest contribution to their undoing.

Lost in his self-reproaches and frightening images the aspiring surgeon very nearly missed an utterly fascinating development occurring all around him, but a faint rustle finally alerted his senses, and gazing at his environment his jaw dropped in sheer amazement. The poisonous roses sheltering the remains of the keep were swaying in the still, muggy late afternoon air, the lush leaves whispering of wonders of a by-gone age and tales long forgotten, and despite his growing apprehension Anderson stepped closer, enthralled by the sight of the clear liquid which had stained the thorns desiccating and flaking away into myriads of harmless crystals. In the next instance the thorns itself retracted into the stems, and when the vines which had barred his way what felt like hours ago receded and gave access to the very path his unfortunate companion had walked Anderson pushed down his fears and followed Darren's footsteps.

Stumbling down a hazardous flight of stairs and through a sinister underground passage dimly brightened by a flickering light ahead of him Anderson fervently prayed that Mitchell hadn't met an untimely end by the hands, or more likely teeth and claws, of the ill-intentioned horror incarnate which might be lurking in these godforsaken ruins yet, but he very nearly tripped over his own feet when a hoarse groan assaulted his ears, stopping him dead in his tracks. _Shit_! Evidently he was too late once again, and harm had already had a closer look at his poor, bewitched friend. Picking up a solid piece of wood which might have been an abandoned torch of the crusaders from the rubble on the stone floor the physician gritted his teeth and tiptoed forwards on soft feet.

"Oh please, Gerald, don't stop. Please…" Without a doubt the strangled voice belonged to his friend Darren, though not even in his wildest fantasies Peter Anderson would have been able to imagine those feverish, husky pleads ejaculating from Mitchell's throat, pleads which were answered with a wanton ripple of laughter that made the physician's hairs stand on end. "You let me wait longer, Vryce. Consider it the first installment of the repayment", a silky voice purred very much in the manner of a feline predator who had just miraculously grown human vocal chords, and Anderson goggled in flabbergasted disbelief. Whatever was going on here it didn't quite sound as if his colleague was in mortal peril, and his paralyzing horror replaced by a sudden bout of curiosity the portly physician walked on.

Whatever Anderson had expected hadn't prepared him in the least for the scenario awaiting him when the tunnel finally ended up in a candle-lit chamber packed with the sullied and tattered remains of thousands of books. Darren's worn-out black jeans and t-shirt mingled on the floor with midnight blue silk robes, the garments apparently discarded in great haste by the couple who was currently occupying the table in the centre of the room, utterly oblivious to the world.

Although a perfectly straight guy himself and happily cohabiting with a young nurse working at the same hospital Anderson had never minded the sexual orientation of his closest pal. Ultimately they weren't living in a cave any longer, and if Darren preferred having it off with a man in an age where homosexual blokes could obtain a marriage license and adopt children be that as it may as long as his friend wasn't casting a covetous eye on him, but deep down in his heart he had to admit that the mere idea of bedding a guy himself somehow gave him the shivers, and he wouldn't have considered it possible that watching two men making love would be such an enticing and arousing sight to behold.

Darren was laying on his back, his green eyes closed in rapture and his fingernails digging into slender buttocks as ivory pale as the rest of the lean body mantling over him like a graceful bird of prey who had finally caught its fugitive quarry. The facial features of Mitchell's lover were partly obscured by strands of silky, golden brown hair shining in the candlelight, but when the stranger's head came up with a start and grey eyes hazy with pleasure locked with his own Anderson staggered back a few steps, thunderstruck. Good old Aesculapius, if that wasn't the damn guy whose picture had sent his friend into a fainting fit back at the Coach and Horses he would eat the Hunter's roses for breakfast.

Try as he might Anderson wasn't able to avert his gaze from the enchanting tableau, spellbound by the arresting eyes and the amused, knowing smile playing around the stranger's mouth who continued to move in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, apparently utterly unfazed by the sudden appearance of an intruding voyeur. Not until Darren arched his back moaning ecstatically, his muscles taut as a bowstring, and the grey eyes slipped shut as his lover bowed his head again to capture Mitchell's mouth with a kiss Anderson at long last managed to break free from the most erotic scene he had ever witnessed and fled as if the devil were after him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

Warnings: slash (rating: M, but nothing too explicit) and a fair amount of the infamous four-letter-word starting with 'f'...;-)

Author's note 1: There are a lot of loose ends to be tied now, but to avoid having to get into too much detail (the chapter is already a lot longer than I'd originally intended…) I just presumed that Gerald picked up a lot of missing links by reading Darren's mind, e.g. the known facts (and rumours) concerning the destruction of his domain.

Author's note 2: I couldn't resist putting a quote (well, not the exact wording, but I used parts of it) from the movie 'Titanic' into Gerald's mouth when he talks about Damien Vryce. Exact quote: 'But now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson and that he saved me... in every way that a person can be saved. I don't even have a picture of him. He exists now... only in my memory' (Rose).

Author's note 3: I also utilized Shakespeare's famous "There are more things in heaven and earth (…) Than are dreamt of in your philosophy (Hamlet).

Author's note 4: I can't remember Gerald's exact words concerning the improbable/impossible (and I don't know for the life of me where in the trilogy to look for them), so I made up my own version. Somehow I can't help wondering whether Ms Friedman got her inspiration from Sherlock Holmes… See for yourselves: "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth?" (Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four, Chapter 6, page 111). Can't help to recognize some striking similarities… You've got two brilliant, cold-blooded, analytical personalities with rather peculiar habits, lol! On top of it Holmes/Watson are perfect slash fodder, aren't they?

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oo

The sun had set, and shadows had fallen over a land which hadn't seen campfires and human intrusion for centuries. Muttering a whole slew of rather ingenious curses under his breath Pete Anderson had unsaddled and fed the horses, set up their tent and prepared a humble meal on the camping stove, bracing himself for what would doubtlessly be a lonely, fearful night. _For God's sake_, the physician thought grudgingly, _whatever is going on in this wretched place __one might think the two lovebirds should have run out of stamina by now_. He had just helped himself to a bowl of instant noodle soup when the shadows parted and two familiar figures stepped into the light of his small lamp.

A beaming Darren was bent under the weight of two enormous stacks of books, and the tall stranger so very resplendent in his sumptuous silken robes of a bygone age was carrying about a dozen of heavy leather bound volumes provisionally tied together with a rope as well plus a bejewelled silver chest adorned all over with mythical beasts and ancient sigils, but at first glance Anderson realized who truly had found his most precious treasure in the abandoned vaults beneath the remains of the Hunter's legendary obsidian keep that day. His handsome face literally glowing with love and happiness Mitchell evidently was in seventh heaven, and meeting his friend's sparkling eyes still wide with wonder Peter Anderson instantly choked down the rapidly increasing repertoire of flippant remarks which had been accumulating inside him during his solitary vigil.

Darren's mysterious beau was undoubtedly more accustomed to concealing his feelings, the serene, flawless features seemingly utterly untouched by the petty troubles of the mundane world giving nothing away while his piercing gaze scrutinized everything from the tent to their camping gear and Anderson's face until the physician imagined he could hear the gears inside the pretty head moving, but he had made no effort whatsoever to hide the tell-tale hickey he was sporting, and regarding the bite marks close to Mitchell's throat it was pretty safe to assume that his lover certainly had been anything but indifferent on that ancient trestle table only a short while ago.

"Pete, I'd like you to meet an _old_ friend of mine." Darren Mitchell was grinning from ear to ear like the fabled Cheshire cat head over heels in love. "That's Gerald Tarrant, the first Neocount of Merentha."

"At your service." Tarrant bowed with a flourish, and for a moment Anderson couldn't help but marvelling at the consummate grace and elegance of the motion, but in the next instant his gaze locked on his friend again who was absentmindedly dabbing at the blood-caked wound at his throat, and his blood turning to ice water inside his veins the bowl of soup fell from Anderson's shaking hands when he remembered the report he had watched with his friends what felt like an eternity ago at the Coach and Horses, remembered the unfathomable revelation that the founder of the Tarrant line, the very creature who was standing just a few feet away, had also been the accursed Hunter in his unlife, a monstrous, demonic entity which had supposedly supped on the blood and fear of his helpless victims.

_O holy shit, Anderson, just pull yourself together and show a bit of savvy, you dumb fool! It's hardly surprising that there are bitemarks at Darren's throat. The fiendish bastard has indeed bitten him, but not in the throes of passion as you've foolishly assumed but to feast on his blood like a loathsome leech instead. May God help us!_ No wonder that spawn of hell had waited until nightfall before it had dared to creep out of its sinister lair, and almost choking on his breath with sheer, unadulterated dread Anderson staggered to his feet, dead set on selling his own life and that of his poor, spellbound pal as dearly as possible.

"Are you all right, Pete? The heat is fucking oppressive, and you're quite pale and sweaty all of a sudden. Why don't you have a sip of water and rest for a few minutes?" Honest concern was showing on Mitchell's face now, but Tarrant's eyes were brimming with unveiled amusement, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a sardonic smile which did nothing to calm down Anderson's bloodcurdling horror.

"I think your friend will feel better when he can provide us with a helping of that _delicious_ soup. Replenishing our energy is very well advisable if one considers that we had a rather busy afternoon today, don't you agree with me, Vryce?"

"Darren, Gerald, my name is Darren. You had better get used to that as soon as possible", Mitchell corrected with a sheepish grin, but when his famished stomach agreed to Tarrant's suggestion with a rather vicious grumble he bent to his task and rummaged through his pack to retrieve two spare bowls and spoons, and a few minutes later their strange little troupe was sitting at the camp fire, each of them nursing his noodle soup and a slice of bread in a deafening silence which spoke volumes and caused Mitchell's gaze to wander between his lover and his friend in utter confusion.

Anderson's nagging fears were somewhat mollified when the former Hunter had gingerly swallowed the first few spoonfuls of the tasteless hot broth and his white and reassuringly human teeth bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the unholy, pointed canines of the nocturnal predators omnipresent in Erna's late night horror movies were cutting through his slice of wholemeal bread, but he nonetheless had to stifle a sigh when he gazed at his besotted pal who had only eyes for the man sitting at his side, the bowl of soup in his hand completely forgotten.

"Eat, _Darren_! If you don't finish your main course you won't get any dessert tonight!" The sudden flush on Mitchell's cheeks and the ambiguous smile accompanying the ostensibly innocent words left no doubt about what kind of dessert Tarrant was currently referring to, and Anderson groaned inwardly, at the end of his tether. Concerning the Neocount's reassuring food habits the man presumably wasn't keen on taking a blood sample from the unlucky mortals who had the misfortune to cross his path any longer, but if the two horndogs continued to fuck each other to cloud nine every other hour late summer would turn into autumn and autumn into winter, and they would be forced to celebrate an open air Christmas in this thrice damned forest before they eventually managed to return to Kale, let alone Jaggonath. In the wake of the taming of the fae the Church of Unification had reinstated the better part of the old traditions from Earth as soon as it had become clear that the terrestrial colonists weren't running the risk of spawning faeborn Messiahs in the dozen any longer, but the more than adequate number of potential Christmas trees at their disposal was but a small consolation to the bemused physician.

Anderson had just shrugged off his annoyance and had tucked into his meal again when to his dismay a familiar, chubby figure in a garish green suit and buckled black shoes appeared out of nowhere with a resounding crack, and for the second time that abominable evening the contents of his bowl were emptied on the lush grass as the fortunately unbreakable camping dinnerware slipped from his limp hands once again. What the heck was the weird horse dealer doing here, and how on Earth and Erna could the fellow have materialized out of thin air? His hairs standing on end when his fears were returning with a vengeance Anderson gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the potential dire events to come.

"Seems the wake-up kiss and its aftermath was to your liking, my friend", Karril cackled mischievously. "Concerning your _'busy afternoon'_ and how you're poking around in your meagre repast you will suffer from formidable stomach rumbles tonight, but as for me I wouldn't mind being put on a diet for the next days. The combined pleasure of your blissed out young lover who apparently can't refrain from drooling over you for a second and yourself was the juiciest morsel I've had for ages."

His flush deepening to a worrisome beetroot red Mitchell buried his nose into his bowl, but Tarrant gracefully rose to his feet in a single, fluent motion and faced the horse dealer without batting an eyelash. "Just so, Karril, but there's no denying that a time span of five hundred additional years of your irritating existence haven't sufficed to improve on your manners at all, a very regrettable fact, as far as I'm concerned."

Karril chuckled gleefully. "And there's also no denying that five hundred years of napping evidently haven't managed to dull your sharp tongue, Gerald. Not that I want to complain. Life was gradually getting a bit boring without having to save your shapely ass from certain doom now and then, and it's good to have you back. By the way, before I forget I'd like to send you Saris regards. She's remained true to her aspect and is currently running the biggest chain of beauty parlours on the continent. Maybe you wouldn't consider it possible, but an amazing number of my family members have adopted a rather bourgeois lifestyle."

"Remind me at what time of Ernan history spying on your friends' most private moments became a part of decent _'bourgeois' _behaviour when I've got a moment of undisturbed peace and quiet'", Tarrant retorted dryly without missing a beat, but the faint smile playing around his mouth belied the stinging rebuke, and the horse dealer snickered. "Anyway I'm deeply indebted to your sister, Karril. When my mortal body finally collapsed under the strain my hearing was the last sense to fade before darkness claimed me, and I'm very well aware that if Saris hadn't talked my ignoble descendant into sparing me dying for a third and final time and hadn't come up with that fancy notion of putting me to sleep instead I wouldn't be able to discuss the topic of suitable, polite human manners with you now. She's rendered me a great service, and so did you. I won't forget that."

"Perhaps I did you an even greater service than you presume, my friend. You don't really and truly believe I shifted my focus and wasted the last five hundred years with breeding and selling horses just for fun, do you? I've never shared your absurd fondness for those kicking and biting stubborn beasts, but visualizing your incensement I wasn't very keen on breaking the bad news to you that all of your cherished true horses had perished in the destruction of the Forest, and so I put my butt on the line and rescued a few of them from a cruel fate before those pompous crusaders torched the whole area."

"You saved some of my breeding horses when those deluded imbeciles had the nerve to raid my domain and raze a meticulously balanced ecological system to the ground whose perfecting had taken me ages and which was no less a part of myself than the flesh I wore?" Tarrant inquired incredulously, and his finely chiselled features brightened considerably at the unexpected news. "How many did escape the preposterous slaughter?"

"Getting more than eight of them out of harm's way was beyond my capabilities, unfortunately, and naturally I had to crossbreed them with a couple of unhorses to avoid inbreeding, but..."

"Have you lost your wits, Karril? Not that you ever possessed them in abundance", the former Hunter snorted derisively, "but that you had the cheek to tinker with my well-wrought breeding programme just takes the biscuit."

"Now don't get into a huff and kindly stop glaring daggers at me, my friend. With your experience in genetics you should be the first to accept that regarding the small number of surviving animals that course of action was unavoidable for a sound gene pool", Karril replied with an excusatory smile, "but although I'm lacking your horse sense in all modesty I can assure you that everything turned out well. By now you've got a formidable herd of roundabout seventy healthy and beautiful horses with shining hooves instead of three toes, and several of the mares are in foal. Even after all those years the legendary animals of the accursed Prince of Jahanna, the only creature on Erna who has ever managed to breed true horses, are still a topic of wild tavern speculations when beer and rotgut have flown plentifully, and to avoid suspicions I've wrapped the beasts into so many layers of my sophisticated illusions that a unsuspecting mortal could run right into them without ever realizing what has just kicked his dumb ass. It feels good to practice your skills every now and then like in the olden days.

"If your famous brilliant brain cells hadn't been addled by your prolonged beauty sleep and the pleasant anticipation of shagging the brains out of your cute sweetie-pie for a delicious night time dessert", the horse dealer continued maliciously, "you certainly would have already torn your rapt attention away from the undeniably alluring _two-legged_ stallion at your side to rivet on the black true horse I placed at your disposal instead. He's the pick of the bunch, and you'll find breaking _him_ in for a change thoroughly enjoyable."

"In fact I would find it thoroughly enjoyable if you stopped being ridiculous and cut down on your unasked-for lewd talk, Karril. I can't avoid the impression that you have indeed missed your calling and should be better off with running one of those infamous but nonetheless much-frequented establishments specializing in carnal delights instead of tampering with equines and meddling with matters over your head. Have I ever allowed emotions or physical cravings to govern my discernment after I had mastered the untoward blood madness casting a gloomy shadow on the first decades of my undead existence? You really should know me better."

Tarrant's condemnatory scowl would have caused any sane human being to blanch with dread, but Karril just roared with laughter, by no means intimidated by the adept's acerbic retort. "Oh Gerald, maybe you're the one who's missed his calling and should hire yourself out as one of the stand-up comedians so very popular with the folks addicted to the moving images they call television nowadays. Amuse yourself with throwing dust into the others' eyes to your heart's content, but in my presence you can stop bothering and drop the act. I know your heart, old friend. There's no shame in caring for somebody, a vital lesson the shining example of your priestly friend should have already taught you centuries ago. I'm sorry if I reopen old sores, but I think it's high time to apprise you of the fact that I called on Vryce shortly before he died of old age in a cloister. When I informed him of Saris' intervention on that fateful day at the Keep the dumbstruck look on his wrinkled face was worth the trouble I had in tracking him down, but at long last he grinned and acknowledged he should have considered that _'the cunning son of a bitch never failed to have an ass or two up his sleeve'_. As you can presumably imagine that's an original citation, but there's no doubt that the priest still loved you from the bottom of his heart to his dying day, and knowing the truth he breathed his last in peace with your name on his smiling lips. Be gentle with the half-baked little chap who obviously adores the ground you walk, and don't you forget that he's _not_ Vryce after all if you want to live happily ever after. And now let the bygones be bygones and pay a visit to Shaitan. The old boy is tugging at his leash like blazes in his eagerness to greet his true master."

Evidently the horse dealer's proposal met Tarrant's full approval, and when the former Hunter and Karril had removed themselves from the campfire and had sauntered over to the horses to inspect the animals and pet the black stallion's shiny coat who welcomed the adept with an excited neighing and a trusting snort into his shoulder-length hair Peter Anderson availed himself of the opportunity and tried to talk some sense into his smitten buddy.

"For the love of God, Darren, do you have any idea of what you're getting yourself into if you mess about with that bloke? Although I'm not into men I don't give a damn for your sexual preferences, and I won't deny that I've never encountered a fairer guy than your recent conquest yet who looks as if one of God's angels had vacated his accustomed place near to God's golden throne to spend his annual leave on Erna, but I very much doubt that the condition of his soul matches the beautiful facade. You know nothing about him, pal, nothing except that he's got a face to die for and that presumably a multitude of hapless folks indeed saw that very angelic countenance when they stared death in the face, praying to God that the grim reaper would finally release them from their excruciating sufferings. Tarrant used to be the Hunter, Darren, the _Hunter_. Do you truly want to team up with a creature corrupted to its very core and in a class of his own when it came down to spilling innocent blood in its prime? A creature which slaughtered helpless women for centuries to slake its hellish cravings for blood and terror and to please its infernal masters? The mere thought gives me the creeps, and although there's actually no point in closing the stable doors after the horse has bolted I wouldn't let him come closer than an arm's length from now on if I were you."

"Don't get all preachy, Pete, and stop talking about him like that", Mitchell cut heatedly into Anderson's ranting. "I won't hear of it! You just don't understand…"

"I don't see things through rose-coloured glasses and very likely understand better than you, Darren. Even if you're cross as two sticks with me at the moment I'm your friend, and as your friend I've only got your best interests at heart. I won't sit back and twiddle my thumbs when you're bound to get into a pretty pickle. Can't you get it into your thick head that something is very, very fishy about the whole situation? Your uncanny visions, the strange _accidents_ befalling each and everybody who has dared to mess with the Hunter's business, not to mention the sly old dog of a horse coper who's obviously been hand in glove with Mer Beautiful for centuries now. Have you ever heard of a normal human being surviving hundreds of years? Just descend from your illusory castle in the air and face it that there's something in the wind, pal. I don't have the faintest idea about the confidences the two fellows have just exchanged, but we've been lured to this wretched place for an unknown purpose by two rather suspicious characters who still have to show their true colours, and that sits heavily on my stomach."

"I bet it's more likely that ghastly soup causing your stomach problems, Mer Anderson", a deep, amused voice butted in, and the portly physician jumped with fright at the sudden interruption. "We've already met in Kale, Gerald", Karril went on with a twinkle in his eyes, "but as we've just talked about polite manners what do you think about presenting me properly to those poor fellows who are gaping at me as if somebody had put a spoke in their wheel?"

Tarrant inclined his head in assent. "A pleasure. Mer Anderson, Darren, allow me to introduce this incorrigible nuisance called Karril, an Iezu by birth and formerly worshipped as the God of Pleasure in Jaggonath. He's an old acquaintance of myself and of… a cherished friend who died a long time ago."

For a fleeting moment a strangely vulnerable expression flitted across Tarrant's delicate visage when the haunting memories of days long gone by at long last shattered the equanimous façade, and a barely perceptible shudder passed through the lean frame of the adept who gazed fixedly into the distance as if trying to cross the sundering seas of time. "I'm very well aware that you wary of me, Mer Anderson, and although I don't make a habit of explaining myself and I'm in no way accountable to you I'd like to tell you a story as a token of my goodwill. The name of my late companion was Damien Kilcannon Vryce, a priest and Knight of the Golden Flame. He was a man of unquestionable integrity and the bravest and most loyal character I've ever had the honour to meet. Vryce saved me in every way a person can be possibly saved, sustained me with his blood and his nightmares when I was starving despite his agonizing pangs of conscience and walked through the very gates of hell with Karril at his side to rescue me from eternal torment at the hands of merciless entities whose cruelty is far beyond your imagination. For that reason alone I will be forever obliged to that courageous man, but most importantly the priest rekindled the dying spark of humanity in a soul smothered under centuries of murder and corruption, and without the him and his adamant resolve to deliver me from evil I'd be either dead for good and roasting in hell or would still hunt the night in search of suitable prey. I've never had the chance to thank him…"

Tarrant's smooth, light tenor turned as brittle as ice, and his hands balled into fists he cut himself off and drew a deep breath in a valiant attempt to keep his countenance. "In my foolish pride I never told Vryce how much he meant to me", the adept continued when he had regained his poise, "and now he's been dead for half a millennium and nothing remains of him than my memories and his immortal soul which has survived the passing of time and has taken up residence in the body of your friend Darren Mitchell, the very man who awakened me from my enchanted sleep in a rather charming manner. Evidently the ancient fairy tale from Earth contains more than a grain of truth, and only true love's kiss can indeed wake the Sleeping Beauty from an eternal slumber."

His mouth hanging agape Peter Anderson goggled in thunderstruck disbelief at the tall stranger facing him with the ghost of a smile while the negligible diminutive part of his brain still fully functional counted its blessings that _'his jaw hit the floor'_ was nothing but a colourful metaphor of speech. Working at the King's Hospital he had encountered and treated his own fair share of miserable folks suffering from a fractured jaw, and eating through a straw for weeks on end most certainly wasn't on the list of his favourite occupations.

"Come off it!" Mitchell's friend blurted out when his befuddled brain cells had recovered sufficiently to allow for a semblance of coherent speech. "What are you talking about actually? Reincarnation? Do you really take me for a dupable dimwit, a sucker for the myth that the essence of your priestly companion somehow prevailed over death just to hop into Darren five goddamn centuries later? You can't be fucking serious…"

Whereas raised as a child of an enlightened age which didn't know the fear of the lethal faeborn spawned my mankind's secret longings and fears any longer Peter Anderson had always been convinced that there had to be more things between heaven and earth than were dreamed of in philosophy, and with regard to the stunning family likeness between the stranger and the portraits shown in the broadcasted television documentary he hadn't doubted for a second since he had set eyes on the striking, haughty visage of Darren's lover for the first time down in the defiled storeroom of knowledge that the arrogant stranger was indeed Gerald Tarrant, the Hunter, who had bested death once again and slept the ages away due to a sinister Working beyond Anderson's imaginative power just to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. That much he was prepared to admit considering the horrid tales about the Hunter's machinations and his abysmal powers he had imbibed from his infancy, but taking the mind-boggling suggestion in his stride that the deplorable soul of an ancient warrior knight who had been lured into volunteering for placing himself on the menu of a vampire born in the Revivalist period had somehow transmigrated into the body of his closest buddy was clearly beyond his capabilities for now.

"I'm very well able to relate to your disbelief, Mer Anderson, but the blood shared between Vryce and myself created a channel between souls, a channel which apparently has survived both death and rebirth for centuries. As much as you would prefer it otherwise that kind of link never lies, and reading Darren's mind when I pondered whether to punish him for taking the liberty to kiss me it's beyond dispute that the soul in question is unmistakably the same although the priest's body crumbled into dust long ago. Admittedly the concept of reincarnation is in stark contrast to the doctrines of the Church of Unification the Prophet wrote down one and a half millennia ago, but one has to stay abreast of changes and accept the improbable if faced with the impossible, a sensible approach a prescient man with your scientific background should be well advised to agree with."

All at once Tarrant's angelic countenance hardened and his eyes focussed on Anderson's bewildered face with a killing glance that made the physician's skin crawl while slender fingers came to rest on Darren's shoulder in a gesture of tenure incarnate anything but casual. "As matters stand you would also be well advised to consider that I never make the same mistake twice, Mer Anderson, and although I don't bear you any ill will and appreciate your respectable concerns for your friend you had better make sure to remember that if you're toying with the notion of driving a wedge between Darren and me. I hope you don't mind me putting it bluntly, but Darren is mine, and the sooner you can come to terms with the inevitable the better for your well-being. Do yourself a favour and don't ever underestimate me."

The unveiled threat delivered in a voice so soft and cool that it slithered down Anderson's spine like a melting snowflake wasn't lost on the blanching physician whose survival instincts hoisted the red alarm flag in a blink, but while he was still trying to gather his wits his buddy Mitchell kindly deemed it proper to add his own two cents to the conversation before things careered out of control completely.

"Sit down and cut the crap, Gerald! Nobody's got a snowball's chance in hell to drive a wedge between us, but regardless my feelings for you I won't have you intimidating my old friend Pete. We've met at university and been through a lot of shit together, and I owe him for agreeing to accompany me on this vulk… this fucking trip into the unknown against his better judgement without hesitation. And for your part, Pete, I'd rather you just keep your shirt on and roll with the punches. I still can't quite get my head around it, but Gerald's telling the truth. Never dared to spill my guts out before, but I've had those blasted visions since I was about fourteen years old, and as it stands I'm quite relieved to find out that I haven't gone completely mental. Adjusting to the changed circumstances is difficult for all of us, and I would appreciate it if you don't make matters worse by forcing me to choose between the two of you."

"Here we go again, Mer Anderson", the former God of Pleasure giggled gleefully. "In all the years I've known Gerald his formidable priest has been the one and only who possessed both the capacity and the guts to cut his inflated ego down to size. For my part it's pleasant to know that some constants indeed remained unaffected by the profound changes wrought on Erna in the last five hundred years."

When Tarrant frowned menacingly and shot Karril a withering glare Anderson tensed with apprehension, but after a dragged-out time-span heavy with meaning the adept inclined his head ever so slightly in Anderson's direction in a gesture that could be interpreted, with a generous dosage of good-will, as tentative acquiescence and settled down at Darren's side again in a single, fluent motion which didn't fail to command the chubby physician's admiration despite his frayed nerves, but for the time being Pete Anderson was still much too occupied with marvelling at the hard and fast authority ringing in Mitchell's voice and the change to his friend's lineaments to spare more than a glimpse for both Darren's lover and the impertinent Iezu horse dealer.

For a fleeting moment the young physician's regular features had seemed to be overlaid by a ruggedly handsome, older visage, and his normally bright green eyes had acquired a disquieting shade of hazel brown in the firelight, but when Anderson blinked fiercely to clear his vision the eerie illusion went up in smoke, and he barely managed to stifle a dismayed groan. _That's just great, Anderson_, Mitchell's friend mused exasperatedly. _First your buddy almost goes over the edge because of some uncanny visions, then he falls for a former member of the ranks of the undead who made himself abundantly clear that he is bound and determined to skin you alive if you don't keep your trap shut, and on top of your misfortune you're losing your marbles and are in for the straight jacket yourself if that arrogant son of a bitch doesn't finish you off first. What a load of bullshit…_

Inadvertently his gaze wandered to his nemesis in silk robes, and the portly physician shivered. Tarrant's clear, grey eyes were glued on Darren's face, his delicate features frozen in a heart wrenching expression of yearning and desperate hunger that shook Anderson to his very core. If he had succumbed to a bout of insanity a few moments ago the former Hunter had evidently shared his madness, and maybe, just maybe, the tale Tarrant had told them had indeed not been made out of thin air after all. Before he was able to pursue that line of thought any further Darren clasped the adept's hand, lacing their fingers together, and kissed Gerald squarely on his mouth in an open display of devotion evidently unwonted for the restrained adept who blinked perplexedly, utterly taken aback at Mitchell's devil-may-care attitude, but in the next instance the bond of affection gained the upper hand over pride and dignity, and a radiant smile that took Anderson's breath away flashed over the pale visage all at once so very young and beguiling in the flickering fiery glow of their camp fire.

Very much against his will Peter Anderson sat stone-still, literally unable to move a limb or tear his eyes off the two men who were utterly oblivious to the world while undressing each other with their eyes until a deep voice jolted him from his reverie. "We're out of the picture now, Mer Anderson", Karril chuckled quizzically. "It's getting late, and you had a strenuous day. Why don't you just call it a night? As for me I suppose I'll stick around in the ether for a while and wait for the promised _dessert_… It would be quite stupid to pass a golden opportunity, wouldn't it?"

The Iezu's lecherous grin and the matching obscene gesture were more than sufficient to evoke unsettling images concerning the nature of the nocturnal dessert, and the physician felt sorely tempted to kick his own ass when he felt the colour rising in his face. Usually he wasn't prone to acting the prude moralizer, but memorizing the incredibly stimulating tableau on the trestle table a few hours ago his hormones still displayed a disturbing tendency to get the better of him, and Karril's knowing wink had him squirming with embarrassment. Nonetheless the horse coper presumably had a point in suggesting to leave the lovebirds to their own devices. God only knew what would come out of this strange union between the dissimilar partners, but racking his brains in the middle of the night was outright silly and wouldn't get him anywhere. Yawning demonstratively Anderson bid his companions a good night and made for the tent, already half asleep when he was crawling into his sleeping bag and completely missing out on the following animated discussion concerning the impending repurchase of Merentha Castle from its unworthy current owner.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oo

In the small hours of the morning Anderson was yanked from his well-deserved slumber by a veritable thunderstorm passing over the former domain of the Hunter, and listening dozily to the gales of wind and the rain drumming on the tarpaulin he idly wondered why he wasn't resting in the comfortable and warm conjugal bed he shared with his girlfriend instead of freezing his buns off in a tent, but his sore behind and the jarring tree root intent on poking holes into his aching back soon enough brought him back down to earth. Muttering a curse under his breath the physician shifted uneasily inside his damp sleeping bag until he had arranged his bulk in a slightly more convenient position and closed his eyes, but his attempts to throw himself into Morpheus' waiting arms again were nipped in the bud by the sound of a zip fastener, the liquid gliding of silken robes and a hushed but doubtlessly rather fascinating dialogue.

"Keep your hands to yourself, you lecherous rake", Darren giggled impishly. "Have to get the oil from our saddlebag with the cooking gear first."

"In this case you'd better hurry up, Mitchell. I'm finding myself running short of patience."

The faint rustling of cloth caused by the ensuing disentangling of limbs was followed by the mere ghost of furtive movements utterly invisible in the oppressive gloom culminating in the telltale sound of a flask uncorked, and involuntarily Anderson pricked up his burning ears. Although he had never bedded a man himself he was no fool, and much to his dismay he very well knew where those preparations were leading to.

"Are you alright, love? If you stick out your pretty bum a bit more it would give me a better angle for pleasuring you."

"I have to admit I'm a tad out of practice, but…" Whatever Gerald had wanted to say was choked off by a surprised yelp turning seamlessly into a lascivious moan that sent a shiver of arousal through Anderson's traitorous body. Evidently Tarrant had heeded to Mitchell's advice, and the young physician had finally found what he'd been looking for.

Although Mitchell's friend wasn't able to see his hand in front of his face the ragged panting and low sighs of the two men didn't leave much to the imagination, and cursing the enervating situation in general and his involuntary eavesdropping in particular he resigned himself to a sleepless night.

The tempest was raging right over their heads now, and when several vivid flashes of lightning brightened the tent's interior Anderson blinked furiously to accommodate his eyes to the abrupt change between light and utter dark just to wonder dimly if he were trapped in a weird hallucination similar to those caused by the justifiably illegal mushrooms some of his fellow students had been much too fond of. The blood rushing to his head and a bit further southwards very much against his will the physician stared into the direction of the closely entwined lovers and held his breath.

The former Hunter was laying curled up on his right side, one long leg bent to steady himself and grant unhindered access to his lover behind him who thrust rhythmically into the arching lithe body, his face buried in the soft strands of light brown hair and his left hand caressing the pale face barely an arm's length away from Anderson's own, a face which had had shed any pretence of aloof hauteur and composure shrouded in the protective darkness of the night. The grey eyes were squeezed shut in rapture, and faint whimpers escaped Tarrant's throat around the corner of Mitchell's sleeping bag he was biting down on in a foredoomed attempt to stifle his treacherous moans of pleasure. The strive for self-control was perishing in the cradle though when the telltale sounds of flesh on naked flesh were speeding up in perfect unison with the lovers' twin breaths, and their muffled shouts of release mingled with the deafening thunderbolts.

_Dear God Almighty, I just hope they have finished their bloody dessert and go to sleep now. Otherwise I will either have to spend the night outside in the rain or take some desperate measures myself",_ Anderson thought shamefacedly. Stifling a sigh he turned around and commenced to count sheep, but despite his best intentions it took some time and a fair amount of embarrassing rearranging of anatomical parts inside his joggers until his body came to terms with the jarring denial of its sexual cravings and he dozed off again at long last, lulled to sleep by the whispered endearments behind his back and the low rolls of thunder far away.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooo

Postscriptum: Well, this is the (rather abrupt) end now, but as I've already mentioned once before I'm very much inclined to write a sequel. Maybe something has gone terribly awry with the manned space mission, and the reincarnated Damien and Gerald have to save the world once again. Who knows? Have decided against participating in the Yuletide Treasure, because I can't face an assignment other than the Coldfire Trilogy, but maybe we could have a kind of private Yuletide giveaway. What do you think? For example those of you interested in a continuation of this story could provide me with some interesting plot bunnies (e.g. Gerald and the model scout, Darren and Gerald in a sex shop, Gerald confronts Frazer or whatever you want), and I would try to write a short ficlet in at least drabble length. This project would basically be an exchange of short (or not so short, depending on inspiration and leisure time) fanfics, and I definitely know what I would like to read from Black Dragon's Ghost…;-)

Yesterday we celebrated 'Nikolaus day' in Germany who very much looks like Santa Clause (I love the movies with Tim Allen...),but brings sweets and little gifts to well-behaved children on the 6th of December. The bad children have a very unpleasant talk with his feared companion 'Knecht Ruprecht' and his rod instead…;-). Our main celebration takes place on Christmas Eve, though, when the 'Christkind' (Christchild) brings the gifts. To cut the matter short I'd intended to post a special fic centering around Gerald visiting Damien in a rather strange red attire;-) on Yule Eve as a kind of Christmas treat for my readers. Unfortunately I didn't manage to finish it in time, but I solemnly promise to post it before Christmas... What wouldn't I do to fly the Coldfire flag, lol! All other projects like Little Red Riding Hood, The Beauty of the Beast, a Star Trek crossover and my version of the Ripper story, not to mention my WIP's, have to wait until next year (well, there's still hope for 'Love is stronger...'). Working in retail at this time of the year is just madness!

Sorry for my extensive Author's notes and Postscriptum, but I thoroughly agree with Black Dragon's Ghost who called it 'part of the entertainment', if I remember correctly. I wish you all a happy Advent period, and please don't forget to write what you think about the gift exchange.


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